


I've Loved You for Longer

by Sh_Boom_69



Series: Song Inspired Tales [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 3rd Grade Mick and Ian, Can I Borrow a Pencil?, Canon Compliant, Cute Kids, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Kid Ian Gallagher/Kid Mickey Milkovich, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mickeys Ma is Mentioned Boi, Nah bitch!, Pre-Season/Series 01, Romantic Fluff, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 10, Tiny bit of Angst, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, cuteness, flufff, ian and mick are so cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:46:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22857223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sh_Boom_69/pseuds/Sh_Boom_69
Summary: He turned toward the boy with downcast eyes like the dying moon in the morning sky worriedabout being burned by the sun but somehow still enjoying the burn, and unceremoniouslydropped the pencil on the desk; catching only a glimpse of a freckled, pale hand that allowedhim to breathe enough to choke out—“Talk to me again, and I’ll stab you."
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Song Inspired Tales [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612804
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59





	I've Loved You for Longer

**Author's Note:**

> -inspired by Perfect by Ed Sheeran.  
> -based off somewhat of this post: https://shboom69.tumblr.com/post/190379044756/mickey-pissed-on-first-base-for-the-attention-of  
> -Enjoy!

_“Can…Can I borrow a pencil?”_

Mickey’s heart lumped up into his throat, a nervous dance twitching across his palms, and  
stilling his doodling over the page. He couldn’t swallow the spit in his mouth, and his fists turned  
white against the pencil, and his entire body fought itself in a spinning of wrong and rights.

It briefly reminded him of what his mother explained as love—the nervousness, his stomach  
curling into itself like a fucking contortionist—but it also reminded him of his father slashing big  
strokes of fists into the face of fags, and blood. It reminded him of a fist against his own skin,  
and the skin of the boy sitting behind him, quietly and hesitantly asking Mickey for a pencil.

  
Mickey didn’t understand the turmoil or dread the vision of the boy being hurt gave him, but he  
knew it was wrong; that much he could understand.

  
He turned toward the boy with downcast eyes like the dying moon in the morning sky worried  
about being burned by the sun but somehow still enjoying the burn, and unceremoniously  
dropped the pencil on the desk; catching only a glimpse of a freckled, pale hand that allowed  
him to breathe enough to choke out—

  
_“Talk to me again, and I’ll stab you.”_

  
Later, when the lights were low and Fiona’s lips molded to ask how his day had been, Ian could  
only remember bruises on dirty skin, cool breath wafting across the desk and tickling his hand,  
and a toughened voice knocking, yelling, and punching the innards of his brain; etching its  
signature into his being.

  
_“Yeah…Yeah…”_ He answered distractedly, reminiscing on spiked, greasy hair and an  
appearance that alluded foulness but he could only smell sweet, _“it was a good day. I think I_  
_might have met a potential friend.”_

  
Mickey wasn’t there the next day or the next, and when he eventually showed up, they had  
moved seats.  
***  
Little league was an escape for Mickey and his mother. It gave his mother an hour or two of  
cheering, and laughing, and eating something besides pills that would make the pain of abuse  
easier to take. It gave Mickey the exhilaration of adoration, and adrenaline, and he had found  
something he was good at, like an actual fucking talent and not drug runs. Most of all it gave  
them momentary peace. It was perfection, the closest to heaven Mickey ever thought he’d get;  
this shitty fucking little league team.

  
Until Ian fucking Gallagher ruined it.

Ian was like a sketch pad to Mickey, and he wanted to hold up scissors to that delicate, wrinkled  
paper skin and cut it to shreds while his other hand etched brilliance into the soft red hair resting  
on top of his head. He hated the aura of familiarity surrounding Ian, like he had known the  
asshole his whole life. Mickey was pretty sure he hadn’t, and that both frustrated him and  
confused the fuck out of him.

  
He chose frustration.

  
He hated his laugh. He hated his long legs that would creep up behind him. He hated his hair.  
He hated his skin. He hated Ian fucking Gallagher for ruining his peace. But most of all, he  
hated himself for secretly liking all of those things and wishing they’d each be a part of his life,  
so maybe he was angry and that’s why he pissed on first base.

  
Maybe he was mad at Ian fucking Gallagher for having all the attention. Maybe he was mad that  
none of Ian’s attention was on him, or maybe he was mad at the Little League coach.

  
Yeah, yeah. Fuck ‘im. It’s definitely the coaches fault he pissed on first base.

  
He would lie and say his eyes didn’t linger on Ian’s when Ian’s dropped onto his.

  
He would lie and insist he wasn’t a fucking fag.

  
He would lie, and lie, and lie until it felt like the truth, and ball his fists every time he thought of  
touching a boy; choosing to touch them in the only way he knew how—the only way he felt and  
was told was right.

  
Meanwhile, Ian basked in the alarming truth, the brilliance, the touching, and feeling, and  
blacks, and purples, and yellows, and red, and dirt, dirt, dirt he had never removed his eyes  
from since the first time he walked into practice.  
***  
_“I always wanted to do that here!”_

  
Even though Mickey spews the words, and allows them to spill haphazardly at his feet, leaving  
Ian with the clean up of deciphering each letter, it sounds and mimics the sensations of  
swallowing—of consuming. Mickey is a predator, a consumer. He enters a setting, he meets an  
individual, and he entirely consumes them—it. He entered the Kash and Grab and then on it  
was entirely his. It had the bite marks of Mickey’s teeth, and nail indents where he picked it up  
with his hands to lead it towards his hungry maw.

  
His teeth marks line Ian’s paper skin, and broken mind, and Mickey’s nails scratch along his  
soul to entirely consume him.

Mickey doesn’t realize this though, and it maddens Ian. It maddens Ian that Mickey doesn’t  
realize how utterly consuming he is. It maddens him Mickey doesn’t feel his jaw opening to eat a  
situation down to its core, digest it, and then swallow it to shit it out later like it never even  
happened.

  
Mickey doesn’t walk, and he doesn’t strut. He takes the normal occurrence of walking, picks it  
apart to his liking, and then eats it until it is him. He takes words into his mouth even as they’re  
leaving and going to rest in the air or drop to the ground. He consumes, and consumes, and  
consumes and leaves Ian with nothing.

Ian would be amazed if the all-consuming Mickey  
shared a bit of his rations, if he allowed Ian to not only be the consumed, but be the consumer.

  
But, Ian thinks, it is kind of beautiful the way Mickey consumes things until they are his.

  
Ian thinks being consumed into Mickey, being consumed by Mickey, is the only way he’ll ever  
be classified as Mickey’s, and Mickey has an aura of familiarity he doesn’t mind being  
consumed in.

  
When Mickey brings up Little League, Ian wonders if Mickey knows he’s been consuming things  
into his being even then, if Mickey even knows now how much he consumes things with his  
being, if Mickey knows that since the first time Ian showed up at practice, Mickey has consumed  
him?

  
Mickey quickly changes the topic as quick as he allowed it to come up, because he wasn’t  
prepared to focus on the fact Ian's teeth marks, and nails have indented the intricate pieces of his being since they were kids.  
***  
_Cause we were just kids when we fell in love…_

"Hey, Mick?” Ian mumbles into his husbands’ ear, and receives a hum in reply. Ian’s buzz  
happened shortly after he finished the beer, he’d been sipping on for one hour, and his limbs felt  
weak and happy with the presence of his husband in his arms, the promise of a honeymoon  
later, and the cold ring pressing into his ring finger.

He hadn’t felt this happy since the first time Mickey told him he loved him.

  
_Not knowing what it was…_

  
“I’ve loved you since the first practice at Little League.” Mickey hums again in  
acknowledgement, and his exterior had been shucked away completely by the booze, the music  
he’d never listen to unless it was with only Ian to see, or hear, and the happy thrumming inside  
his heart and ribcage, and flowing through his blood stream because of his husband wrapped  
around him, and the ring pressed firmly against his finger. He smiles, and nuzzles into Ian’s  
neck.

_I will not give you up this time…_

  
“Yeah, well…I’ve loved you for longer.”

**Author's Note:**

> Snippet from the Post that also inspired me-  
> \- maybe pissing on the first base wasn’t much for a boy but it did, for just a moment, get ian to look at him and maybe that was enough. maybe it was enough to withstand his fathers anger. 
> 
> There’s the saying that ian fell first but mick fell harder, and i think that is complete bullshit because they both love each other intensely, but time makes the heart grow fonder, and well fuck. mick has liked, loved, wished, yearned, and burned for ian for a long ass time. that has to stand for something. 
> 
> -i hope this explains some!  
> -Thanks for reading!


End file.
